


What strong teeth you have

by Wrathofscribbles



Series: Soulmate AUs [6]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-06 06:43:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20287102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: All the better tobiteyou with, my dear.





	What strong teeth you have

**Author's Note:**

> Same as ever, I don't own FFXV or any of its content. Square Enix does.
> 
> This oneshot ties in with “[Revelations](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19718725)”  


"Do you yield?"

"As _breathtaking_ as this is, Gladiolus, if you're intent on crushing me I'd much rather it be with my head between your thighs."

... Wait. Did he just - did he just _say that out loud?_

Misery rears cruel as a striking snake in his gut and before he can claim joke or insanity or some such _useless_ excuse, the stranglehold loosens as Gladio lets loose a pitiful, garbled noise of - something. Horror? Surprise?

"What -" he begins (and yes that is _definitely _confusion), but Ignis doesn't give him a chance to spout anything beyond that, because he is a thrice-damned _fool_ with too loose a tongue and swift on the heels of misery he is _mortified_.

And so, with clear sight of his last lick of sense jumping from the window, Ignis does the only thing he can think of in that moment. He bites Gladio on the arm, hard as he can, and makes a frantic bid for freedom when Gladio recoils and releases him, not quite yelling and not quite yelping, either. Ignis doesn't waste a single second the moment he has his feet under him, not with his pride in tatters and _the most blunt confession in the history of efforts at wooing another_ out in the open.

He flees without a backward glance.

Only to wake with a fright when he hits the floor in his bedroom.

* * *

It's not dirt at all, he realises, after scrubbing the skin so viciously it's raw and smarting under the shower. It's a _bruise_, clamped between two of the feathers splayed wide down his bicep, right where Ignis bit him.

In his _dream_, not reality, because they hadn't crossed blades yesterday and Ignis was too stuck on rules to pull a stunt like that. He was always harping on at him to fight _dirty_, to use anything from illness to past injury to his advantage. Ignis never followed through on the advice, though. Right? Right. It was just his brain being an unhelpful lump of shit in his skull, too worked up with no outlet in sight, exams and study to the fucking _heavens_ blocked in around his shoulders.

Some exercise would do him good. _Proper_ exercise, not the _keep it quiet and keep it quick in the shower before someone bursts in demanding a pee _kind of workout for hand and wrist and outright _insanity _running circles 'round him all thanks to Ignis and his stupid face and how good he looked all mussed up and sweaty and -

Fucking fuck fuckity _balls._

It's definitely a bruise. And he definitely doesn't have a boner halfway through a decidedly _frosty _shower. Nope. Not happening. He can't see or feel shit, nuh-uh. He's just dreaming again.

* * *

He takes pride in his tattoos. In the pain of them, the sight of them, the weight and _tradition_ behind them. _Amicitia_, they declare without a single word and he _knows_ them. Spent weeks upon weeks discussing and refining the design, scrapping drafts and amending others until he _finally _had what he wanted. He knows every inch of them, curve of talon and extension of wing and _glare _of the eye set on his chest. He _knows_ his tattoos, and the writing on his bicep making an appearance as the bruise fades is _not_ part of them.

It's not his handwriting. It's not the tattoo artist's, either.

It's Iggy's.

It's _his name_. Right there, tucked up against one of the feathers.

And every kid in Insomnia knows about the soulmate markings, the _tells_ bringing one to the other.

* * *

"So where's _your_ mark, then?" Noctis asks, hand still clamped tight on Gladio's elbow and curious gaze switching from Iggy's name right there on his skin for all to see, to the man himself. It's not Gladio's place to say, though he wants to, _oh does he want to_.

"On my ass," Ignis replies, stone-cold _deadpan, _and Gladio laughs until he's outright _wheezing_ when the other two go from curiosity to _grief_ for their ignorance, now soundly ruined. His name isn't actually stamped on Iggy's ass (nowhere near it, thank fuck, because that'd just be _weird _on too many levels) but they don't need to know that, and Gladio isn't dumb enough to correct Ignis when he's already so ruffled and off-kilter after _their _confession of being soulmates.

In hindsight, their bond is obvious, waking up as they grew closer, started dating without its influence. But then his attraction to Ignis should have been obvious, too, and _that_ was a goddamn bolt out the blue.

"I can't unsee that," Prompto says, almost smothering himself with the cusion he's curled around.

"What, the glorious booty that's all for me?" Noctis hisses like a cat dropped in water, _ew _and _gross_ the best he can sputter at Gladio's retort and he, spying an opportunity with the torment Ignis started, leans in close with a grin promising mischief and says, quite seriously, "if you think that's gross you might not want to roll around on the practice mats anymore, princess."

Their horrified screams are well worth the bullshit, as is the wicked curl of Iggy's smile.


End file.
